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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964679">Slept So Long Without You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am'>for_autumn_i_am</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Attempt at Humor, Biting, Blood Play, Blow Jobs, Creature Fic, Horny Human Solomon Tozer, M/M, Sex Toys, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Edward Little</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:54:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,073</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964679</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Firefighter Sergeant Solomon Tozer takes home a Victorian vampire as a charity case. He has some regrets, but not many.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Little/Solomon Tozer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Lieutenant and Sergeant Gift Exchange, The Terror Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Slept So Long Without You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fosfomifira/gifts">fosfomifira</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the lovely fosfomifira, who requested "Sad Vampire!Edward, Horny Human!Solomon" 💗<br/>Terror Bingo fill: Dildo<br/>Please refer to the end notes for content warnings!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Little House goes up in flames.</p><p>“Old house like this, it burns like shit,” Sol observes as he and Heather get out of the fire engine. Sol adjusts his helmet and squints at the blaze through the visor. Nice controlled burn. Smoke direction promising. Last of the block, it’ll be easy to isolate.</p><p>“Victorians had a bloody deathwish,” Bryant grumbles as he passes them.</p><p>“Georgians,” Sol calls after him. “Look at that fan window.”</p><p>“Okay, okay.” Bryant waves it away. It’s a teachable moment, though.</p><p>“First part of being a fucking firefighter?” Sol shouts after him.</p><p>“Knowing architecture,” Bryant says, exasperated, as he jogs to the fire hydrant.</p><p>“Yeah, so you know what’s collapsing atop you!” Sol yells. He shares a look with Heather, who grins. Sol rolls his eyes and answers his radio. “Engine 202, Sergeant Tozer, I copy. On scene, command will be to the west, opposite side of the fence. We'll pull a hand line.” He squints at Heather. “Report of occupant?”</p><p>“Negative. Abandoned.”</p><p>Sol nods, sniffs. Figures. Bloody shame though. A part of history, and the government will just let it rot until something like this happens. Sol’s team would do a better service to the community if they just let Little House burn to ashes, because whatever they’ll manage to salvage will just sit as an eyesore for months or years until somebody bothers to bulldoze it away.</p><p>Sol’s thirty-five and he’s put out more fires than he can count. Built dams. Responded to car accidents. Rescued the odd kitten. Every time mother nature said <em>fuck you</em> to Liverpool, he was there to help. Now he’s in London. Lots of bloody storms and fires and million pounds of damage. He doesn’t really give a crap about the latter.</p><p><em>It was someone’s life,</em> he thinks as they start wetting down the exterior. It’ll never stop fucking him up, how much a man can lose. Fucking brutal. The building <em>is </em>Georgian; generations must’ve lived here until their lives went to shit and they could no longer afford it. Some rich bastards, giving quaint names to their houses. Still. A home’s a home.</p><p>Visibility is low. The fire is internal, so the building is just a dark, hulking shape, the shattered windows pulsing orange. They point reflectors where they need them, make a direct attack at the burning side on the west.  Sol keeps glancing up to the jagged roof as he beats down the fire with Heather and Byrant.</p><p>“Spooky, right?” Heather says.</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“There’s something spooky about it.”</p><p>“Probably because it’s on fucking fire,” Sol deadpans. He checks in with 203 through the radio: Piklington and Hedges are doing okay on south-east, and Tommy Armitage has arrived at the scene, just in case.</p><p>No matter his experience, when something burns, it always looks like it’ll never end. They could douse an entire ocean on the fucker and it would just climb over to another room, another surface. The worst part is when you think it’s finished, go check, and it starts again.</p><p>So Sol goes and checks.</p><p>On his way he waves to Tommy, who sits on the pavement smoking, which is fucking rich. He may only be a medic, but he’s worked on enough fires to develop a natural aversion, or Sol should think so. He smiles to himself, shaking his head. His mind is still on Tommy and his fucking cigarette when he steps into the garden. It’s overgrown as hell, grass up to his knees and twisted trees overrun with mistletoe and ivy. The house is resting, as if the roar of the flames didn’t bother it. Sol can hear his own breathing in his mask, the cackle of radio silence in his ears.</p><p>He turns on his headlamp, and regrets it instantly.</p><p>There’s a face in the window. His expression is calm. His eyes are hollow. The house is on fire and the man is staring out, a man of average height, dark hair down to his shoulders, a full beard, and chains shot through his fucking face.</p><p>“Hey!” Sol calls. Rushes up to him.</p><p>The man doesn’t acknowledge him: he turns slowly, and walks away from the window. Sol curses, runs to the darkened door. His heart is thudding in his throat. He checks the temperature of the knob. It’s burning hot. It still turns, even though he didn’t fucking touch it. The door opens. The face peers out.</p><p>“I was awoken,” the man says. His tone is very pleasant. Conversational.</p><p>“The house,” Sol says, “is burning down.”</p><p>“Oh.” The man blinks, and peers over his shoulder. The ceiling collapses behind him. He barely flinches. Sol grabs him and drags him away from the building.</p><p>Something is terribly wrong here.</p><p>The man is watching flames erupt with a completely blank face. He’s very pale. Sol can’t get over the piercings. They’re excessive.</p><p>“Look at me,” he says. Something in the man’s gaze makes him uncomfortable. Chills his blood, all that. Big brown eyes like his shouldn’t be so cold. “Can you tell me your name?”</p><p>“You don’t have a face.”</p><p>Sol tears off his gasmask. His heart is beating way too fast. He knows what to do. This is not an unusual situation. It’s not the first time he’s found a squatter in a building he thought abandoned.</p><p>His heart won’t stop thudding. <em>Run</em>, it tells him.</p><p>Well, if his nerves think he’s in bloody danger, they should take a long, hard look at his career.</p><p>“Sir, I must ask you to leave the premises with me, it’s not safe to be here,” he says in his most assertive tone.</p><p>The man appraises his features, then says, “It’s not safe.”</p><p>It sounds like he agrees, so Sol takes the initiative to grab his arm and drag him to safety. He appears to be in shock. Ashen skin, bluish lips, all that crap.</p><p>“Can you tell me your name, sir?”</p><p>“Edward Little,” the man says. Sol feels chilled again. He can’t wait to make it out of the bloody garden, this fucking jungle. He wonders if the dude’s fucking with him, or if he’s delusional, or somehow both, or if it’s an awful coincidence that he shares a surname with whoever owned this house in the past.</p><p>“Edward,” he says instead of the appropriate Mr. Little, because fuck that, “are you experiencing nauesa, an elavated heartrate, or anything unusual, uncomfortable or even slightly painful?”</p><p>“No,” Edward says without giving it much thought. “I don’t feel.”</p><p>The sentence is left unfinished.</p><p>They make it to the pavement, and Edward squints against the lamplight. He raises his arm to block his eyes.</p><p>“Tommy!” Sol yells, but Tommy’s already running to assist.</p><p>Sol looks back at the house.</p><p>Edward Little is in deep shit.</p><p>He leaves him with Tommy and goes to check on the team. The fire’s under control. Still no need to go interior. The ceiling went to shit, but the walls have held. He gets so caught up in the work he nearly manages to forget about Edward, until he hears a bloodcurdling scream.</p><p>It’s Tommy.</p><p>Sol rushes back to him. He finds Tommy with his back to the fire engine, holding the side of his face, and Edward on the ground, crouching. His arms are raised above his head, as if he was protecting himself from an earthquake. Sol notices that he’s kinda strangely dressed. A long navy coat. Lots of buttons.</p><p>Strangely dressed man in an abandoned house.</p><p>Never good.</p><p>“So we’re not co-operating?” Sol says. Edward doesn’t answer.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Tommy says. Tommy, who’s fucking bleeding from the face.</p><p>“Sir, if you attack the medic, I gotta call the cops,” Sol says. No answer.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Tommy repeats. There are scratch marks on his face, five lines, almost cartoonish. Sol glances at Edward’s hands. His nails are sharp, but very clean.</p><p>Something doesn’t add up. He takes a long breath, counts to five. Takes off his helmet, and crouches down next to Edward like a professional, although he’s very tempted to give him a good shake for hurting Tommy. Tommy never bothered anybody.</p><p>“Hey, Edward,” he says, and it comes out gruff, but he sounds like he has things under control, which is good. “What’s the problem?”</p><p>“It's far too bright,” Edward says, still shielding his head.</p><p>Sol makes eye contact with Tommy.</p><p>“Concussion,” Tommy says, almost with relief.</p><p>“You must let Mr. Armitage check you for concussion, Edward,” Sol says, softer. Edward shakes his head.</p><p>“I won’t go in there,” he says. His tone is very even.</p><p>Sol considers his options. Pats Edward’s shoulder at length, gets up, walks to Tommy. Tommy is putting antiseptic on his face.</p><p>“You sure you okay?” Sol mumbles, making certain that he articulates well. Glances back at Edward, who doesn’t look like he’s eavesdropping. He’s still curled up tight, strange face buried into his knees.</p><p>“Yeah, he just freaked out. I must’ve spooked him.”</p><p>Sol runs a hand over his mouth. Glances at Tommy.</p><p><em>Person with no housing</em>, he signs.</p><p><em>I think so</em>, Tommy signs back.</p><p><em>What will happen to him</em>?</p><p><em>They’ll send him to a</em>— here, Tommy makes a sign Sol doesn’t understand, but can easily guess.</p><p><em>S-H-E-L-T-E-R</em>, Sol fingerspells. Tommy nods.</p><p>Sol doesn’t like that.</p><p>“Anybody not already in a shelter in this fucking weather has a good reason not to be there,” he mouths, signing the keywords he knows. “They’ll ask him questions about the fire, too. Guy has issues. I don’t want trouble.”</p><p>“I understand,” Tommy says.</p><p>Sol glances back at Edward. He’s stopped crouching, and is now sitting on the ground, cross-legged. He’s looking at the ruins of the house. His face is still completely blank.</p><p>Poor fucker.</p><p>“Is there a way to keep it under wraps?” Sol asks.</p><p>Tommy sighs.</p><p>“Listen,” Sol pleads. “I know my first aid. I know how to deal with mental shit. We’ll be fine, I just need to figure out what’s wrong with him before the cops get involved. I could, I don’t know. Take him home, patch him up, ask a few questions.”</p><p>“My shift’s over by 3AM,” Tommy says, resigned. “I’ll come over, examine him, no papertrail.”</p><p>Sol pats him on the shoulder and grins. “You’re an angel.”</p><p>“If he acts up again, call Goodsir,” Tommy says, flushed.</p><p>Sol hopes it won’t come to that. No need for social workers. He’s got this.</p><hr/><p>He ends up calling a cab, because he doubts Edward has an Oyster card. The ride is decidedly awkward. The cabbie looks like he really doesn’t want to be there. Sol’s still in uniform, helmet and all, although he ditched the gas mask a while ago. Edward is looking out of the window in what appears to be a sulk. It took a while to convince him to get into the car.</p><p>Sol keeps stealing glances at him. They share the backseat, so it’s easy. He’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with Edward’s face. Like, all right. There are the chains. But also, his skin looks <em>too </em>healthy. Poreless. Clean. Fucking alabaster skin, an expression Sol never quite understood, but Edward does look like he was made of fucking marble, no blemishes or any of that, just fucking timeless. How old could he be? Twenty? Thirty? His eyes make him look older, like he’s seen a lot of shit. There’s a perpetual pout to his full lips, like they’re ready to wobble at any minute. Good jawline. Gorgeous nose too. Handsome fellow.</p><p>Sol should stop that train of thought right there before he gets into a rail accident.</p><p>He doesn’t want to end up like he did with his last charity case, Cornelius Hickey and his fucking street urchin act. Sol fell for it hard, fell for him hard. At least he can thank Cornelius for his biwakening, even though it brought him nothing but double the heartbreak. He had to leave Liverpool to be able to leave him, that fucking mall rat with his sticky fingers, the ginger guru of the docks with the eternal wisdom of weed. All he had to do was shotgun some smoke with Sol in some abandoned parking lot and Sol was ready to find Nirvana on his dick. And he did. The sex was great. The sex was not the issue. It should’ve been nothing but sex. He would’ve still been robbed, Sol's sure of that, but it wouldn’t have hurt so fucking much. It wouldn’t have felt like being mauled by a stray you took in. There's no version of reality where Hickey didn’t gut him.</p><p>He needs to stop this habit of pity fucks—no, they’re not that. Empathy fucks. Give him a lost soul and Sol will try to fuck them better. Cornelius. John, too, to an extent. But he needs to face the fact that his dick is not some magic wand or sonic screwdriver, he can’t just put it in people and expect them to be fixed, so he needs to look away from Edward’s lips right the fuck now. So what if the sad puppy-eyed man he’s rescuing is just his type? It’d be taking advantage.</p><p>Edward catches him looking and holds his gaze.</p><p>Holy fucking god damn, those eyelashes.</p><hr/><p>“So this is me,” Sol says, flicking on the switch. Edward flinches. Sol turns off the lamp and puts on the moodlights he installed for John. It’s nice. Casts the place in a warm glow, which is both welcome and necessary, because everything’s fucking white and grey. Coconut and charcoal, according to John. “My flatmate’s super into hygge,” he tells Edward, because he feels like he owes him an explanation.</p><p>Edward looks lost.</p><p>“Scandinavian design,” Sol elaborates. “Cozy shit.”</p><p>It doesn’t look like the explanation helped, but Edward says, “You have a lovely home.” He sounds like he’s trying to be very, very polite. He makes his way through the foyer swiftly, quite ready to set foot into the kitchen, but Sol just manages to say, “Boots off, please.”</p><p>Edward obeys. He struggles with them a bit—they’re real leather, reaching up his calves. Sol’s latent uniform kink is awakening, so he goes to fetch the guest slippers to distract himself. He won’t make a fucking pass at Edward. Not while Edward is depending on his help, or might feel obligated. He won’t daydream of a future either where Edward is sorted, settled and safe, and Sol goes to check in on him, and Edward offers to share a beer, and one thing leads to another—</p><p>Sol hands over the fucking slippers. Edward is standing there in strange but oddly clean socks. His feet don’t smell. Edward doesn’t seem to have a scent at all. Maybe sort of like winter. Crisp air. Considering that, and his fashion choices, Sol’s squatter theory is holding less and less water by the minute. Perhaps Edward didn’t need to spend the night in Little House when it caught on fire. Perhaps he chose to. A dare, a kick, or some weird cult shit.</p><p>In any case, Sol promised to help him, so he will. If he can just patch him up and send him home to his worried family or whatever, that’s all the better. A happy end.</p><p>Edward walks around like the place is a museum. He’s trying to be just as quietly appreciative, but his eyebrows are knit in confusion. He stops by John’s FAITH LOVE HOPE poster over the counter. His gaze wanders to THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE WE WILL REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN IT.</p><p>“It’s John’s flat,” Sol explains. “He owns it and everything, if you’d believe that in this economy.”</p><p>“Oh yes, the economy,” Edward says. He even hums in agreement. Sol becomes convinced Edward has somehow managed to go all whatever years of his life without ever hearing the word. He stalks about, hands clasped behind his back. He has good posture, Sol supposes, though it looks bloody painful. Back ramrod straight, chest puffed. The sleeves of his navy coat look like they’re actively pulling his shoulders back. Edward stops by the fridge, frowns, then puts his ear to it.</p><p>“If you’re hungry, there’s some kebab in there,” Sol says.</p><p>“I am hungry,” Edward says, but he doesn’t open the fridge. He’s just staring at Sol, unblinking.</p><p>“Right,” Sol says. “Maybe later.”</p><p>He remembers to take off his jacket, hoping that it’ll prompt Edward to get comfortable too, but Edward just keeps looking. Sol supposes the uniform does look funny a bit. They were promised a design update. The sand-coloured trousers go up over his waist, and he has to wear braces with it, over a white tee with the fire department's emblem. He’d normally put on sweats as soon as he could, but with Edward here, he wants to maintain at least some air of professionalism. He ruffles up his hair and finally leaves the foyer, as if he needed an invitation to enter his own flat.</p><p>John’s flat.</p><p>Their shared flat.</p><p>Whatever.</p><p>“Can I get your coat?” he asks,  because Edward in slippers but a fucking greatcoat is just getting unnerving and ridiculous. Edward looks around, as if he’s expecting a bloody butler to enter the scene, then nods. Doesn’t move.</p><p>Sol scoffs, and walks up to him. So be it. He starts unbuttoning Edward’s coat for him. Must be quite difficult, with so many buttons and those nails.</p><p>“Do you have something to tell me about the fire?” he asks, conversational. He doesn’t think he’s ever undressed a guy like this, with functionality instead of erotic hurry.</p><p>“I think my candle must’ve started it,” Edward says. He doesn’t even sound ashamed.</p><p>“Oh, your candle?” Sol asks. Jesus Christ, these bloody buttons. There’s a hundred of them, and they’re metal, cold to the touch. Edward keeps looking at him and doesn’t offer help. What a sick ass power play, or whatever it is, but okay.</p><p>“I don’t see well enough in the dark to read,” Edward explains. He sounds oddly condescending. The coat is at least undone now. Sol pulls it off roughly, just to put Edward in his place, but then a fucking frock coat is revealed, and it throws Sol off his game. It has just as many buttons as the outer coat, maybe more, and it’s the same navy colour. It’s very obviously a uniform, but the quality is too good to be a costume. Bespoke? Cosplay? What the hell is Edward’s deal?</p><p>“What were you reading?” Sol asks, dead certain that Edward will say the Satanic Bible or the Book of the Dead.</p><p>“Letters,” Edward says. Doesn’t elaborate. He walks off, leaving Sol to deal with his coat. Sol’s looking for a label while he has a minute, but finds none.</p><p>So Edward knows how to sew and makes himself silly costumes to sit in abandoned houses with his piercings and goth nails and read.</p><p>Holy shit.</p><p>He’s a youtuber. Like those ghoul boys Tommy watches.</p><p>“Lemme check for a concussion and let’s be done with it,” Sol says, even though now he’s convinced that Edward’s just stoned out of his fucking mind. He doesn’t show the usual signs, but if he’s some fancy little shit who chooses to sport the beard and haircut of a hobo, he can afford some designer drugs too. Which means that Sol will need to get Goodsir on the line after all, and explain how he got a drugged hipster in his flat and why he needs his help. Splendid. He throws Edward’s coat over a basket and goes to the living room. Edward has seated himself in John’s beloved Poäng armchair, which is off limits even for Sol, but whatever. Sol looks through the bookshelf for his medkit, which is either behind his Stephen Kings or behind John’s Tolkiens and Narnia shit.</p><p>“Is that your likeness?” Edward asks.</p><p>“What?” Sol glances over his shoulder. Edward has helped himself to a framed photograph of John and Sol on a hiking trip in New Zealand. God, that was a holiday alright. John developed a lifelong disdain for sheep. Sol smiles remembering it, even though it hurts like shit, to think of times when everything was still all right.</p><p>“The colours are remarkable,” Edward says, and gingerly places the photo back to its place of honour.</p><p>“He left me,” Sol blurts. He manages to locate the medkit behind a bunch of candles and succulents. He wants to yank it out and let all that crap fall to the floor and shatter.</p><p>“Your flatmate?” Edward asks politely.</p><p>Sol chuckles. Fucking hell. He eases out the kit. “He was a bit more than that,” he says. “At least I thought so. It’s funny, you know. I was under the <em>impression </em>I had a partner. That we’d been secretly in love ever since I moved in, and officially dating for months, and then he finally agrees to meet my friends and I introduce him as my boyfriend to the lads and he freaks the fuck out, pulls me to the toilet of that fucking pub, tells me that we’re just mates, says it with such <em>urgency</em>, tells me that sucking cock doesn’t count, that we were just fooling around, like fucking goddamn <em>please</em>.”</p><p>He slams the medkit onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. Takes a minute to just stare at it. He’s avoiding Edward’s gaze, but what’s wrong with ranting at somebody who won’t remember any of it? He ruffles up his hair again and collapses on the sofa John and him bought together. They were shopping for furniture in IKEA, for fucks sake, what was Sol to think? John blushed and laughed when Sol made jokes about the meatballs, and squeezed Sol’s thigh under the table, and couldn’t wait to get to his knees once they got home. So they slept in separate rooms; so what? John was posh, and that’s a posh thing to do, Sol thought, and he was okay with John being shy about public displays of affection, because he was such a regular cuddlebug once the doors were shut. He never initiated, but melted into Sol’s embrace every time he reached for him, made the cutest little noises of contentment and settled against his chest while working on his laptop.</p><p>Now he’s fucked off to Edinburgh to sort himself out, which apparently meant getting entangled with some lassie, if that drunk Insta story is to be believed. His replies are infrequent at best. He didn’t tell Sol to leave, not yet, but he has an overnight bag packed because it’ll fucking happen, he’ll be booted from a life he built with a man whom he loved, for fuck’s sake, it was (it is) love.</p><p>The worst part is that Sol could help him, because God knows he used to think he was straight too, he was balls deep in denial until Hickey. If only John were here, they could figure it out together.</p><p>“You’re very brave,” Edward says. He sounds so earnest Sol can’t help but glance at him. Edward looks like a kicked puppy, which is remarkable to pull off with the chains and all.</p><p>“Am I?” Sol mutters. He doesn’t feel brave. He feels like shit. Starts sorting through the medkit. He’ll do a quick PCSS just in case, text Tommy to bring some drug tests, and send Edward on his merry way once he’s clear-headed enough to know where he lives and if he has his phone and keys. Then he’ll be alone in this flat after a strange night, with no distractions, and he’ll try not to cry under the shower like some pathetic sack. He hates living alone, always had, he needs company, he needs people around him, he needs John.</p><p>“You have told your friends you had a male lover,” Edward says in a tone like he’s waiting for Sol to confirm that’s what he meant. Sol nods his weak assent. Edward carries on, “It must have been quite a shock to John. He had to consider his reputation. You are not afraid of scandal, but he may have quite different circumstances. I envy your bravery, yet I cannot begrudge him his surprise and fear; indeed, all my life, I’ve been a coward: therefore, I’m not within my rights to judge his actions. Perhaps you only need be patient with him; reassure him that your friends can be trusted, and will never tell his secret.”</p><p>Sol scoffs, with good humour. Runs his hand over his face. Another closet case. Great. Not like he didn’t spend over two decades there, but still. Knowing what’s it like just makes him pity Edward more. Pity John.</p><p>When will he come home so they can solve this mess?</p><p>“What’s your story, then?” Sol mumbles. It’s only fair if they share. Make it into a bargain. He toys with the torch he keeps in the medkit. He probably shouldn’t flash it into Edward’s eyes. His sensitivity to light and noise had been confirmed. He should focus on cognitive issues and check for injuries, that’s it. Possibly ask Edward outright if he’s autistic before he puts him through the stress of a drugtest with Tommy.</p><p>“I left my lover to die,” Edward says.</p><p>It gives Sol pause.</p><p>Oh, fucking hell.</p><p>Not homelessness.</p><p>Not drugs.</p><p>Not autism.</p><p>Grief.</p><p>“What was it?” Sol asks, because he’s learnt it’s easier to talk about it in technical terms. You can sum up unutterable pain by calling it cancer or Alzheimer’s.</p><p>"Scurvy," Edward says.</p><p>Sol takes a moment to react. “I don't think…” he says, but won't finish the sentence<em>, I don't think he was dying then, per se</em>, because what the fuck does he know of their circumstances, their access to food and health care.</p><p>“He came back wrong,” Edward says, toneless, haunted. “He made me like this; I'm cursed to live with my shame eternally, live this infernal half-life.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” Sol sighs.</p><p>Edward’s boyfriend apparently survived, but a bad breakup’s a bad breakup. It’d drive anyone to distraction, make them weird or trigger some shit. He still hasn’t ruled out substances. God knows Sol’s tempted to run off himself, stoned to oblivion. Setting something on fire sounds like a fun way to cope. He’d even know how to put it out. Burn down the town and build it up again.</p><p>“You should call him,” Sol advises. Fixing  other people’s problems has always been easier than his own. He rubs his nose. “Tell him you’re sorry for not being there for him.”</p><p>“I dare not call upon him,” Edward says, turning away rather dramatically. The light from the window illuminates his face. He looks heartsick like shit. He has an impressive and varied scale of looking upset.</p><p>“How long has it been?” Sol asks.</p><p>“A century."</p><p>“See? If it feels like that it’s water under the bridge. You both deserve closure.” Edward tenses at that. Bad word choice, then. “Or a second chance. Rekindle those flames,” Sol says, and even manages to wiggle his eyebrows. They could both use some cheering up. Edward now looks shocked, lips slightly parted. He has big teeth. “Just saying,” Sol adds. “When it’s been forever, you get to start over.”</p><p>That’s his best hope, too. Maybe this limbo with John will last long enough that it won’t hurt anymore. Then they could…whatever.</p><p>
  <em>Hello, John. Please answer your phone. I don’t want to be over you, and that’s the worst part, because you clearly do. </em>
</p><p>“Enough self-pity,” Sol announces. “I’m not a shrink, but we can get you one if that’s what you need. I’ll just check if you’re sound, then you can eat or shower or whatever until Tommy gets here. He might give you some more tests, if that’s okay.”</p><p>“I shall feed,” Edward says, oddly dejected, like it’s the last thing he wants.</p><p>“Kebab’s still there, buddy. Lemme just…” Sol scoots closer and reaches for Edward wrist. He recoils, emitting a strange sound like a hiss. Sol shows him his palms, as if Edward was a spooked horse. “Sorry, I just need to check you. Two fingers to the wrist. Fifteen seconds, I’ll count. May I touch you?”</p><p>“You may,” Edward says, and after a beat adds, “touch me.”</p><p>“It’s none of my business,” Sol says, “but if you have any sort of, I don’t know, sensitivity or mental health issue, you can let me know.”</p><p>Edward is silent. His posture is defensive, shoulders pulled up to his ears, but he offers his hand almost daintily, like they’re about to dance a waltz. Sol hums, and starts to count. Edward’s skin is cold, but not clammy. Sol’s waiting for his pulse and hopes it’ll tell him something. In the low lights, Edward’s skin is blueish-pale. His eyes have darkened. The pupils are wide, surrounded by a ring of amber. He’s holding his breath.</p><p>“Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.” Sol drops his fingers. “Sorry pal, I might have to go again, didn’t feel anything.”</p><p>Edward is still not breathing.</p><p>“One. Two. Three…”</p><p>His lips are parted. His teeth glint.</p><p>“Ten. Eleven. Twelve.”</p><p>His gaze is fucking intense.</p><p>“Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Shit. May I touch your neck? I might feel it better there. I know it’s more uncomfortable though.”</p><p>Edward inclines his head.  He’s wearing some sort of ascot thing, so Sol hasn’t much space to feel skin. Edward’s beard brushes his knuckles. It’s surprisingly soft. Sol feels around with his fingertips gently, looking for a pulse point before he begins counting.</p><p>There’s none.</p><p>Edward is still staring at him. “What an odd form of courtship,” he notes.</p><p>Sol blinks at him, dumbfounded.</p><p>“Where else do you want to touch me,” Edward says, “before we eat?”</p><p>Sol swallows back a curse. He reaches up, puts his thumb to Edward’s upper lip. Holds his gaze (he’s still waiting for consent, why the hell—) then pulls it up.  Reveals a sharp fang.</p><p>Suddenly, a ton of things make some sickening sort of sense.</p><p>“Edward,” he says, trying to keep his voice even so he won’t jump up and scream, “I know this will sound stupid, especially since your name is Edward, but are you a vampire?”</p><p>“Yes,” Edward says, the word slightly slurred. Sol pulls back his hand. The hand he put into a vampire’s mouth, like an idiot.</p><p>
  <em>Hey John, how are you? I have a vampire in our living room. </em>
</p><p>“Are you a real vampire?” Sol asks. The fangs could be fake. The cold skin, the heartbeat, everything—</p><p>Edward smiles at him, and there’s no doubt about it.</p><p>Humans don’t have that many teeth.</p><p>They wouldn’t fit.</p><p>They wouldn’t—</p><p>“I think I’m going to pass out,” Sol says, even though he’s having a very different sort of reaction. He’s blaming <em>Venom</em>, and all the strange porn it inspired.</p><p>He gets up, in any case. Edward does the same. There’s no hurry in it. No urgency.</p><p>Edward decided to come home with Sol and eat him.</p><p>That much is now clear.</p><p>He’s been very polite about it so far.</p><p>“I need a drink,” Sol announces, voice thick. “Can I have a drink?”</p><p>“Please; I wouldn’t want to impose.”</p><p>Sol nods, head swimming. Fucking hell. <em>Wake up, </em>he thinks at himself, but he knows better. This moment is terribly real. Crystal clear. Like the world coming into focus.</p><p>Fear shouldn’t make him aroused.</p><p>It always did though.</p><p>There’s a reason he basically works as an adrenaline junkie.</p><p>He walks through the living room like he’s walking through mist. Edward is following him. Sol turns to him after a few steps. “How old are you?” he asks, because he doesn’t even know where the fuck to begin, but this shit needs to be addressed.</p><p>“What year is it?”</p><p>“Twenty-nineteen.”</p><p>“Twenty-nineteen,” Edward repeats slowly. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying, but it does not quite sound like a real date.”</p><p>“Listen, you’re a fucking vampire and you’re in my flat, pal, I don’t know what to tell you.”</p><p>“I’m two-hundred and seven years old,” Edward says. “Eight, if it’s past November.”</p><p>“It is; happy birthday.” Sol marches to the kitchen. He keeps screaming internally. Just screaming and screaming and screaming. Should he run? There’s no point. Put up a fight? Edward is smaller than him. But if he knows one thing about vampires (fucking vampires), it’s that looks can be bloody deceiving.</p><p>He grabs himself a beer from the bridge. Stares at the fluorescent light illuminating his leftover kebab, protein shakes, dozens of eggs, and the complete absence of John's vegan food. “You’re a Victorian,” he says.</p><p>“I have served in Her Majesty’s navy,” Edward confirms, but in an uncertain tone, like he’s worried that’s not what Sol’s meant. Like he gives a crap.</p><p>“This must be all very strange to you,” Sol says. Slams the fridge door shut, but keeps holding the handle. He’s not ready to turn and face Edward. Maybe he should smash the beer bottle against Edward's head, make a run for it?</p><p>“Not really,” Edward says. His voice is still very calm. No sinister tint to it. What Sol took for an accent is probably just...age, language change. Edward is a Londoner, and it makes so, so much sense that the vampire who’ll kill him lives in Westminster. “I wake up, sometimes. I first woke up when there were explosions in the sky.”</p><p>“Oh, you woke up for the Blitz,” Sol mutters, and opens the beer on the table’s edge. John would beg him to use a bottle opener, but that’ll be the least of John’s worries when he finds Sol’s drained, mummified corpse on the kitchen floor.</p><p>“It was rather loud,” Edward says in the tone of someone who’d rather not complain, and quickly adds a positive, “Quite a lot of food just lying about.”</p><p>Sol faces him, finally. Edward is standing at parade rest in the door of the shadowed living room.</p><p>“You sucked the blood from corpses?”</p><p>“When I was thirsty, yes; when I hungered, I ate them.”</p><p>“So you’re a cannibal too, that’s nice.” Sol takes a long, deep chug, eyes squeezed shut.</p><p>“I’m no longer the same species,” Edward says, his tone still even. Sol is starting to suspect that it’s part of the act. This is the way he hunts. Looking harmless. Approachable. </p><p>“We should write Anne Rice and update her on vampire lore,” Sol babbles. “When you finished gobbling me up, you should check out my bookshelf, I’ll leave you <em>Interview with the Vampire</em>. John hates it, but I have loads of this crap because I have a raging vampire kink, cheers.”  He takes another chug from his beer. Shit. When he dies, the police will go through his earthly possessions and find all the bloody fantasy dildos. He never told John. John had never even seen the <em>XXL Dragon Dong</em> and he <em>still</em> broke up with him. They never had a chance.</p><p>“I won’t even pretend I understood that,” Edward says.</p><p>“I like to fuck vampires!” Sol says, throwing his arms open. He’s getting hysteric. When Edward makes an offended face, he just starts laughing.</p><p>“Do you meet many?”</p><p>“Hell yeah,” Sol says, laughing still, and makes to sit on the kitchen table. “Maybe I fucked your male lover, eh?”</p><p>His ass never meets the table. Edward grabs him by his shirt, and yanks him closer. There it is. That superhuman strength. Like expected.</p><p>“You shan't even entertain the thought,” Edward says. His rage is a cold thing; his voice is not raised even though he keeps Sol lifted off the ground.</p><p>Sol winks. “I’m thinking of it right now.”</p><p>He half expects to be thrown across the room, but Edward just drops him, and shakes off his hand. “Don’t test my patience,” he says coolly, and walks away, back into the living room. He hangs his head, as if ashamed.</p><p>Sol thinks over the events of the night so far.</p><p>“Do you feel bad about killing humans?” he calls after Edward.</p><p>There’s a beat of silence. Sol is staring into the half-dark. John will never get the blood off all this white.</p><p>(Coconut.)</p><p>“Yes,” Edward says at length.</p><p>“So that’s why you prefer corpses?” Sol asks. He finishes the last of his beer, and follows Edward. The exit is right behind him. He should make a break for it. Why is he not running?</p><p>(He knows why, and he hates himself.)</p><p>There’s also the fact that Edward is back in the Poäng armchair, looking utterly miserable.</p><p>“The dead don’t mind,” Edward mutters.</p><p>“Can’t be healthy.”</p><p>“It isn’t.”</p><p>“Lucky for me, though. I’m alive and kicking.”</p><p>Edward is silent.</p><p>“Suppose you don’t really have it in you to break my neck.”</p><p>“You’re a good man.”</p><p>“That’s a first.”</p><p>“You are,” Edward insists, glances at him. “But you have rosy cheeks.”</p><p>“Reckon that’s tempting. Red-blooded man like me.”</p><p>Edward hangs his head again. Fumbles with his hands.</p><p>Sol looks at the door. Back at Edward.</p><p>Fucking hell.</p><p>He lowers himself to the coffee table, next to the abandoned medkit and John’s bonsai tree.</p><p>“What if,” he says, “I let you drink some of my blood willingly, on the condition you don’t kill me?”</p><p>Edward scowls again. “Why would you do that?”</p><p>“Because you’re sexy and I’m shallow.”</p><p>“Sexy,” Edward repeats slowly.</p><p>Sol crosses his arms. “Don’t fish for it. You can bloody well guess what it means.”</p><p>Edward smiles at him bashfully.</p><p>Sol kisses him.</p><p>Edward was very obviously not made for kissing, but it just makes it more arousing. Rows and rows of sharp teeth scrape against Sol’s tongue as he licks into Edward’s mouth. He buries his hands into his mane, finds it soft and thick. Edward’s beard scratches against his own, a delicious burn he fucking misses from kissing John. Edward makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine. Sol spreads his legs shamelessly, tugs Edward just a little bit closer by his hair.</p><p>Sol only has Edward’s word that he won’t die tonight, but if he did? Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Victim of his own wet dreams. Put that on his gravestone. What a way to go.</p><p>Every time he attempts to break the kiss for a breath, Edward descends upon him again, eager. This is just what Sol wanted. To be needed. Desired. What could be stronger than hunger? This want is honest and direct. To be wanted for food, wanted for sex. No complications. No bullshit. Just naked fucking need, need, need.</p><p>“Bedroom,” Sol manages to croak.</p><p>“A splendid proposition,” Edward agrees, but doesn’t move. They are panting into each other’s mouth. Well. Sol is panting. Edward doesn’t need to breathe, he’s just making sounds again and looking at Sol slightly cross-eyed.</p><p>“Drag me there,” Sol says. “It’s the door to the right. I’ll put up a fight.”</p><p>“All right,” Edward says, and grabs for him. Seizes his wrists. It’s amazing. He stands up swiftly, pulling Sol to his feet, who can’t help grinning, but then Edward just sort of stands there, contemplating his options. Sol wiggles a bit, trying to get his hands free, and when Edward doesn’t react, Sol shoves at him, chests colliding so hard Sol’s breath catches.</p><p>Edward falls back into the Poäng armchair. Sol is pulled along, lands in a graceless heap in Edward’s lap.</p><p>“Come on,” he grunts, getting up to his knees quickly. Edward is looking at him with eyes blown wide. Those sad eyes with the Maybelline eyelashes. “Is this how you hunt?”</p><p>“I don’t really hunt humans,” Edward says.</p><p>“Yeah, because you eat corpses,” Sol mutters. Gets a bit hot at the thought. He’s disgusted by himself, and also fucking delighted. He manages to stand and pull up Edward, who looks chastened.</p><p>“If I hunted,” he said, “I shall think I’d rely on my allure.”</p><p>“Oh, your <em>allure</em>,” Sol teases. Edward is still gripping his wrists, and he’s starting to feel some pins and needles.</p><p>“It worked on you,” Edward grumbles.</p><p>“You got lucky,” Sol argues. “Not everybody is a pervert.”</p><p>“You would be surprised.”</p><p>“What’s your perversion?”</p><p>“Lieutenant Jopson enjoyed it when I applied my mouth…” Edward trails off.</p><p>“To his cock,” Sol suggests, ever so helpful.</p><p>“Lower,” Edward says, hushed.</p><p>Sol cocks an eyebrow. “You ate the dude’s arse and you still call him <em>Lieutenant Jopson</em>?”</p><p>“Some degree of propriety must be observed!” Edward drops Sol’s hands, but he’s storming off towards the bedroom, so not all hope is lost.</p><p>“You can eat my arse all proper-like,” Sol teases, smiling as he rubs his wrists. Edward gripped him so hard it feels like he’s been  tied up for hours. It’s fucking great. “That’s it, then? The most, ah, intimate thing <em>Lieutenant </em>Jopson and you ever got up to?”</p><p>Edward stops by the bedroom door. He glances at Sol, then at the threshold, as if it was fucking fascinating. “We promised each other that we’d make love in the sunshine, if we survived,” he says. “To see each other fully; no longer reliant on the feeble flame of a candle—we could scarcely afford that risk, but we used to think that one day…”</p><p>Sol sighs. The poor fuck. He walks up to him, making sure that Edward hears him approaching. When Edward doesn’t move away, Sol backs him up to the door, presses his chest to Edward’s back, his half-hard cock fitting into the curve of his arse. He’s a bit taller than Edward, but, well. Cats are tiny, and they can still be dangerous as hell. Sol kisses the top of his head, because he’s starting to suspect that a very different approach is needed.</p><p>“Do you want to look at me?” he asks, voice dropped low. He puts his arm around Edward’s slim waist, pulls him closer. Edward nods, wordless. “Yeah? Wanna see how hard you make my prick?” Sol jabs forward, makes Edward grunt. “You make me fucking hard, Edward. You lured me right in alright. Seduced me completely. I’m at your mercy.” He slides his hand lower, over Edward’s stomach. “You’re so damn beautiful I couldn’t resist.”</p><p>“I’m frightful,” Edward says, licks his lips.</p><p>“Oh yes,” Sol breathes. “Absolutely horrifying.”</p><p>“I get the impression you forget I’m a monster.”</p><p>“I’m very, very aware.” He cups Edward’s cock. Finds him soft. Nothing Sol’s trademark stroking won’t improve. He starts rubbing him firmly. Hell yes, he’s big. Big, fat vampire cock just for him.</p><p>“I can’t have a cockstand,” Edward confesses. Puts his forehead to the door as he goes on, “I lack circulation.”</p><p>“Ah,” Sol says, suddenly into limp dicks. “Yeah, that makes sense. Does it feel good though?”</p><p>“Mph,” Edward says. Rocks into Sol’s palm.</p><p>“That’s it,” Sol breathes.</p><p>“You promised to let me feed.”</p><p>“I promised to let you drink, no biting chunks out of me, thank you. Open the door.”</p><p>Edward fumbles for the knob. It takes him a few tries while Sol is rutting against him, fondling his dick. Not exactly what he expected from this encounter, but it’s nice, too. Edward is a sensitive man. (Vampire.) Sol can respect that. John’s the same. Sol can be cuddly as fuck if he needs to be.</p><p>Sol’s bedroom is not much to look at. It used to be John’s guest room, because the bastard can afford to have a<em> guest room</em> in central London, so it’s the same colour scheme as the rest of the flat, sleek and modern with a gentle touch of rustic. Sol keeps it neat, which used to surprise his hookups and surprised John even more, but a firefighter sergeant can’t be messy. Edward and him stumble to the nicely made bed, and Sol reaches to flick on the light strings. Said light strings caused him some crisis about his masculinity, but by the time he purchased them he was fucking John’s mouth on the regular, so he thought—what’s the damage. They cast a lovely glow on Edward, catch in his hair spilling over the pillow, set it ablaze. Sol straddles his hips, caresses the side of his face, feeling out his beard, and, tentatively, a chain. It’s cold to the touch.</p><p>“Comfortable?” he whispers. Edward nods, although he’s squinting ever so slightly. He reaches for Sol’s braces, looking for something that’s not there. “Clasps,” Sol says. “Here.”</p><p>“Your clothes are quite odd,” Edward remarks.</p><p>“Hurry up and get me naked if you don’t like them.”</p><p>Edward is momentarily confused by the elastic of the braces, then gets them out of the way, offended. He starts untucking Sol’s tee methodically.</p><p>“You could just tear it off,” Sol suggests.</p><p>“Is it of no value to you?”</p><p>“If you stick around long enough I’ll tell you about fast fashion, and you’ll want to die again.” Sol stops to think for a moment. “Although you’re one to speak with your cotton industry.”</p><p>“What do you know about my cotton industry,” Edward mutters, hurt. Keeps tucking at Sol’s shirt.</p><p>“I was quite good at history, you know. Straight Bs.”</p><p>Edward stops. “I’m history,” he says softly.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>Edward scoffs, and gathers Sol’s tee in his fists.</p><p>Rips.</p><p>The sound the tearing fabric makes is very, very satisfying. Sol is knocked back, landing hard on his arse as Edward climbs over him, eyes burning.</p><p>“This is what I am,” Edward says. He yanks at Sol’s trousers. Sol would, technically, like to keep those intact, because they get the tees in bulk but the fucking trousers are inflammable and pretty expensive, but, well, he’s not getting fucked by a vampire every night, is he? He lets Edward tear them off as a treat. Sadly, Edward's momentum is halted again when he’s faced with Sol’s underwear. It’s just a regular pair of black briefs, but they do outline his cock nicely. Edward seems more interested in the fabric: he pulls at the waistband. It stretches.</p><p>“Yes, they adjust to size,” Sol sighs.</p><p>“Fascinating,” Edward says. Tears them off with no effort.</p><p>Now they’re talking. Sol’s ass-naked (minus the socks, he hopes Edward will take off his socks) and stretches luxuriously so Edward can admire the results of his gym membership. Edward runs appreciative hands over his torso: the scratch of his nails is everything. He caresses up to his armpits, then down to his stomach, but his eyes are elsewhere.</p><p>“Your balls are nearly barren,” Edward observes.</p><p>“Oh, yours aren’t, are they?” Sol grins. He hopes for a bush. An entire forest. “Lemme see.”</p><p>“I’m thirsty,” Edward says, dragging his claws over the V of Sol’s hips.</p><p>“Mood,” Sol says, because he can’t resist.</p><p>Edward ignores it, focused on petting Sol. He’s being appraised like a fattened rabbit.</p><p>“Where may I bite you?” He scratches Sol’s trimmed treasure trail. Sol’s stomach jumps. Something in him, something scared and tiny recognises the touch of a predator.</p><p>“I think the neck’s a classic,” Sol says, hoarse.</p><p>“That would be lethal,” Edward says. He bows his head. His hair cascades down, covering Sol’s stomach. Edward runs the point of his teeth over the jut of Sol’s hipbone. Sol bucks up, seeking more contact. It’s nice to know Edward is not planning to kill him. Reassuring. Doesn’t change the fact that he has a lot of fucking teeth and sharp ass fangs, one of which is poking at Sol’s skin. It feels like the kiss of a blade.</p><p>“Do whatever you want,” Sol says. Grabs a fistful of Edward’s hair, because he’s doing whatever <em>he </em>wants, and he’s always been into this Count Dracula vibe, not the slick Lugosi kind but this feral Vlad—</p><p>Although if he’s honest with himself, Edward is a fucking Louis. Pretty and delicate. Difference is, Louis is a whiny bastard, while Edward is—</p><p>His teeth sink into the flesh of Sol’s thigh.</p><p>—sweet.</p><p>“Bloody hell!” Sol cries out. It’s a lot. Jesus Fucking <em>Christ </em>it’s a lot. He thought the fangs would feel like a syringe’s needle, only bigger, but they’re like daggers, and the rest of his teeth are—fuck—it feels like being stabbed, and Sol is now painfully fucking hard. His cock sticks to his stomach obscenely, smearing precome over his belly as Edward starts sucking. “Holy shit,” Sol curses. It’s not like a blood test at all. He can feel it, feel the blood getting drained.</p><p>He gets up to an elbow to look, because he has zero self preservation instincts at this point. Edward’s cheeks are hollowed, kinda like he’s sucking cock, and his eyelashes are lowered in pleasure. He’s beautiful.</p><p>Sol’s body starts going into shock. Cold sweat. Prickled skin. It’s amazing.</p><p>He’s being consumed and his body knows it.</p><p>Edward pulls back. Blood drips down his lips, bright-red. He makes eye contact with Sol, then descends again, this time biting into his side. Sol arches off the bed and shouts. The wound on his thigh is throbbing, and the new bite is somehow worse and infinitely better, deeper, perhaps, and through the haze of bliss, Sol remembers the sheets. They’ll get bloody as hell. Fuck the sheets though. He grabs his cock and starts wanking furiously as Edward pulls up again, then puts his lips around Sol’s nipple. Licks at it as he inserts his teeth, and grabs Sol’s wrist to stop him from wanking.</p><p>“Please,” Sol begs. “Please, lemme—”</p><p>Edward is holding him with more force than previously. Sol can hear him feed. The gulps as Edward drinks up his blood. He’s going to black out. He’s going to come. He’s going to die.</p><p>“Wait for me,” Edward says. “I wish to give you pleasure, if you’re good for me.”</p><p>“I’d say I’m being pretty fucking good now,” Sol pants. He may be hyperventilating, a bit. His whole body is trembling. There are bite marks all over him. Edward’s teeth are red as he smiles. He caresses Sol’s hair, but doesn’t let go of his wrist, doesn’t let him touch himself, even though he aches for it, he wants it more than anything.</p><p>“A bit more,” Edward says. He leans over his throat. Sol closes his eyes and waits for a fatal bite. He’s ready for it. He’s ready now. He’s so fucking hard, he’s—</p><p>Edward scrapes his teeth over the skin of his neck, licks at it. Kisses his way down his chest, nips at him, and it’s like crows pecking at meat, sharp and brutal.</p><p>Edward stops by his cock. Pries Sol’s fingers off of it, one by one. Lowers his head over the shaft. Glances up at Sol, his eyes fully dark. Takes his cock into his mouth.</p><p>Sol comes.</p><p>He just. He completely floods Edward’s mouth, who doesn’t even bother closing his lips, probably because of the fucking teeth, sharp teeth just around Sol’s cock, so the come just dribbles out, runs down Edward’s chin. Sol keeps coming, spurt after violent spurt, until he’s drained, and a bit more after that, because he’s bleeding everywhere and Edward smiles at him again, all teeth, all those teeth—</p><p>Edward spits. Come and blood. Jesus Christ.</p><p>Sol covers his mouth.</p><p>He’s about to cry.</p><p>He’s seeing stars. He thought that was exaggeration when it came to orgasms, but there they are, shiny-bright. All because he nearly got his cock bitten off.</p><p>“I’m learning something new about myself tonight,” he says, breathless.</p><p>“Me too,” Edward says. He kisses the wound on Sol’s thigh, then the one on his side. Sol is too light-headed to peek. He must look mauled. That’s how it feels. Like pieces missing.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>Maybe just a glance.</p><p>Except there’s nothing there, just bruises and tiny puncture wounds. Sol frowns. Edward kisses his chest, laps at his nipple.</p><p>“Are you…” Sol swallows. Peers down at Edward. “Are you kissing my boo-boos better?” he asks, toneless.</p><p>Edward pulls his tongue back, meets his gaze. He looks more alive, somehow. There’s some colour in his cheeks. Freckles, Sol realises. He has freckles.</p><p>“I’m healing you,” Edward says.</p><p>“Your saliva…” Sol starts, trails off.</p><p>“I think God made it like this so we can feed later, if we so desire,” Edward explains. He sits back on his heels, straddling Sol’s hips, and looks down at him proudly.</p><p>“God?” Sol asks. He’s still seeing stars. They shine around Edward. Fuck, he’s handsome.</p><p>“Or the devil,” Edward says. “Whoever’s responsible.”</p><p>“Darwin. Remind me…to lend you Darwin.” Sol runs a hand over his face. He needs to collect his wits. Fuck. He got…he fed Edward. That’s something he did. Edward looks so calm and sated. Smug, perhaps. It’s fucking adorable. “C’mere,” Sol whispers.</p><p>Edward climbs over him on his hands and knees. Sol kisses him, and tastes salt and iron, the bitter tang of his spend and all the blood Edward swallowed up. How much did Sol lose? He doesn’t care. He buries his hands in Edward’s hair, caresses his nape. Edward makes a noise close to purring, then cups Sol’s softening cock. He hisses, but rocks into his palm.</p><p>He wants more.</p><p>“You’ve been so good,” Edward says. “How may I please you?”</p><p>Sol feels like he could come from kissing. He’s never been an underachiever, however.</p><p>“You can’t get hard, yes?”</p><p>“That is correct.”</p><p>“I have a drawerful of dildos—silicone—fake cocks, for when girls come around.” Sol considers how to best explain pegging. Decides to skip it. He catches Edward’s gaze, parts his legs. That’s easy to understand. “Stuff my arse.”</p><p>“Is a <em>dildo </em>like a phallus?” Edward asks. He pronounces the word as if it were French or something, bless him. “I had such a device at my disposal, made of leather.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah?” Sol wants to ask if Lieutenant Jopson found it enjoyable, but knows better. Jopson’s mere mention has a profound effect on Edward, and Sol doesn’t feel like experimenting whether he’d trigger Edward’s sexy fury, or his melancholy.</p><p>Sol reaches over into the drawer. Manages to get it open by the third try. His hand is still shaking a bit. “These are the vampire-themed ones,” he says. He doesn’t show Edward the one which is just a fanged mouth with a long, long tongue; Edward’s tongue is quite normal, and he doesn’t want to make him self-conscious. The two dildos he presents in their boxes are anatomically correct: one ghostly-pale and stiff, the other an angry blood-red, ridged. While Edward measures them, holding each in hand like a man discovering unimaginable riches, Sol gets a plug, the lube, and a leather harness with a jock-strap design that should leave room for Edward’s balls and look fucking divine.</p><p>“Which one would delight you more?” Edward asks.</p><p>“It’s your choice,” Sol says.</p><p>“None of them look much comfortable.”</p><p>“The red one, then.”</p><p>Edward smiles softly. “You do have a favourite.”</p><p>“Great memories. Start undressing, reckon it’ll take forever.”</p><p>“You should know that patience is a virtue.”</p><p>“You should know that I’m a greedy man, Edward Little.” Sol looks him over. Why is it so erotic to watch him remove that ascot-thing, the silk slipping through his fingers? God, his throat. Edward starts working open the buttons. “How can we make it good for you?”</p><p>“What is your meaning?”</p><p>“It’s very nice of you to offer to top,” Sol says, as if Edward had any choice in the matter (what’s the point of fucking a vampire if you don’t get <em>ravished</em>?). “I wanna make it good for you, though. Get you off.”</p><p>Edward has a vacant expression.</p><p>“Make you come,” Sol says. “Fuck it. Reach your peak?”</p><p>“Oh,” Edward says, shedding the frock coat. He has a waistcoat underneath. How did he fit that there? How can he manage so many layers? “I trust it’ll be as pleasing for me as it is for you. You’ve given me sustenance, and you’re a feast for the eyes; I shall not want.” He shrugs off the waistcoat. Then the braces. He has a shirt on. No, two. Sol watches him reach back and tug them off, utterly confused. He wants to ask Edward about them, but his interest in Victorian fashion ceases the moment Edward’s chest is revealed.</p><p>It’s nice and hairy.</p><p>Hell yes.</p><p>Hell <em>fucking </em>yes.</p><p>Tiny nipples. He’s also skinnier than expected. Solid torso, but slender arms. What a stunning guy. Both strong and fragile, dangerous and vulnerable, with the saddest fucking eyes on earth. He grabs Sol’s ankles and pulls him closer, positioning him on the bed so he’s spread out like Edward prefers.</p><p>“I shall think,” he says, “there’s more to eroticism than what pricks can provide.”</p><p>“You know how to say prick!” Sol says, vindicated.</p><p>Edward inclines his head. His hair falls over his naked shoulder as he reaches to open his trousers. “One shall know the names of things he loves,” Edward says. “I love to fuck men; my vocabulary must reflect that.”</p><p>Sol has never been happier about an F-bomb. Edward tugs down his trousers, and it turns out he’s not wearing underwear. His cock is amazing. Entirely human, sadly, and very limp, but God, the size, the girth. Not to mention the bush is gorgeous. Who the fuck invented razors and wax? Who let them?</p><p>“Tell me some old-timey swear words,” Sol asks as Edward gets comfortable between his knees.</p><p>“I have the impression you’d laugh.”</p><p>“You don’t like to be laughed at?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Liar,” Sol breathes. He secures the monster cock in the harness and hands them to Edward. Edward spares a confused glance at the garment, but figures it out soon enough. Sol takes the opportunity to remove his socks. Finally. He lies back, stretching luxuriously. Edward looks at him, eyes heavy-lidded. The dildo is just above his cock, jutting out, long and proud. The leather hugs his hips wonderfully. He’s a fucking vision to behold, and Sol wants to remember it forever.</p><p>Edward puts his hands over Sol’s knees, pushes them up to his chest. “You’re beautiful,” Edward says. “Handsome. Strong. Forgive me for saying, but your John is a fool.”</p><p>Sol snorts, flattered. “I’d return the compliment, but I reckon Lieutenant Jopson is beyond reproach.”</p><p>“Quite,” Edward says, measured.</p><p>“You’re very protective of him,” Sol observes. Well. Apart from the leaving-him-to-die-of-scurvy part. Still. It’s hot. Sol’s not a fan of being possessive in general, but it’s a good look on Edward.</p><p>“I wish to guard the ones I love. I failed once; I shall not fail again.” He puts a finger to Sol’s entrance. He tenses.</p><p>“No,” he says. “Edward, buddy, not with those claws, here—use this—sorry, I don’t like fingers anyway, super bony, it feels weird.” </p><p>Edward takes the proffered butt plug. Spits on it.</p><p>Sol hands him the lube wordlessly.</p><p>Edward can use the plug surprisingly well. Credit where credit’s due, he’s already made Sol come harder than he’s come in months (no offence to John), maybe his entire life. It’s still a surprise. He’s a fucking Victorian. Also a vampire. So there’s some counter-balance.</p><p>Getting stretched is relaxing as hell. Sol spent his twenties topping exclusively, so this always feels like a treat. He can just lie back and take it. Wait for his cock to get online again. He’s proud of his stamina. Never had complaints. Edward works him open methodically, with an adorable look of concentration on his face. He has no right to be this cute, chains and all. Sol is trying to picture him clean-shaven, with a modern haircut. Can’t. Striking face, anyway. Classically handsome, and all that. Sol would’ve picked him up if they met at a pub. He doubts Edward was ever the type to hang around in pubs. His club, perhaps. Sol’s seen his house. Edward is a gentleman.</p><p>Sol’s not sure gentlemen are supposed to fuck dudes with buttplugs, but they totally should. Be of some use to society that way. Though Edward has mentioned the Navy. He does have a sailor’s stamina. And sexual orientation. If the stereotypes are to be believed.</p><p>“Think I’m ready,” Sol says, wiggling his toes.</p><p>“Are you certain?” Edward says. He places a hand on Sol’s tummy as he pushes the plug deeper in. How sweet, to try to ground him. Big dick like that, Edward’s probably used to lengthy foreplay. Sol smiles at him and feels quite silly, beaming at a guy like that. But he loves feeling silly. How stupid attraction makes him. Edward’s gorgeous enough that Sol would be justified to twirl his hair and giggle.</p><p>“Give me that dick,” Sol says, tipping his chin towards the dildo, so there’s no misunderstanding. Edward lubes it up (good boy), and fuck, it’s a thrill to watch. Those fucking claws. Sol’s always liked long nails on women, but this is an entirely new experience. Edward is a monster. Sol means that with all due respect and a heap of lust. Those nails were made to tear at flesh. Edward could claw him right open.</p><p>Instead, Edward takes his hand. Which is like, okay. So be it. He intertwines their fingers, looking at Sol quite seriously. Sol positions his hand above his head, so there’s the illusion of being held down.</p><p>Edward pushes in.</p><p>Turns out Sol does need a hand to hold, because holy shit. He squeezes Edward’s fingers and grunts. It’s not the most extreme toy in his collection. Far from it. It’s the <em>intent </em>Edward has. He fucks with <em>purpose</em>. Penetrates Sol like he’s a stronghold to be besieged. All that violent force of it. Just what Sol needed. He arches up from the bed, and the recently-healed bite marks pulse and sing.</p><p>“Oh yeah,” he says. “Punish me with that prick.”</p><p>“I’m rewarding you,” Edward says, confused. “You’ve been good.” He presses the dildo deeper, and Sol follows the movement, rocking his hips. His cock is awakening, spent and numb as it is, ready to join the party even with a hangover.</p><p>“Tell me how good I’ve been,” Sol pants.</p><p>“You’ve been perfectly amiable,” Edward says. He gives Sol a peck on the lips. It feels patronising, and it makes Sol snort with laughter. He looks at Edward, can’t help a smile.</p><p>“I’m starting to like you,” he says, and strokes himself. </p><p>“I should hope so; I’m inside you, after all.”</p><p>Sol snorts again. His arse is spread around the dildo, and Edward is grinding in slow, making him feel every inch.</p><p>“I’m sorry about your house,” Sol says.</p><p>“Thank you,” Edward says. He’s getting—not exactly breathless, but certainly affected. He’s holding Sol’s hand tighter. What a romantic, even in death. Sol takes his chances, turns his head and kisses Edward’s knuckles. He’s rewarded with a low grunt and a sharp thrust.</p><p>“Poor Edward,” Sol says. “I’ll introduce you to electricity and basic fire safety, I’m good at it.”</p><p>“I know what electricity is,” Edward says, stabbing the dildo in sharply, as if in admonishment.</p><p>“Do you really?” Sol asks. He tugs at his cock, decides it won’t need more help to get hard if Edward keeps pouting like that.</p><p>“While I’m certain science has advanced, you should keep it in mind that I was exceptionally trained.”</p><p>“For your age,” Sol allows.</p><p>“We used to respect older generations,” Edward complains. Now he sounds two hundred years old. Sol shouldn’t be into that. He very much is. It’s just, well. Having history between his legs. Getting fucked by the ghost of the past.</p><p>Speaking of which.</p><p>“Was your house Georgian?”</p><p>“It was built in the Palladian style in 1734,” Edward confirms.</p><p>“Fucking knew it,” Sol whispers. Edward didn’t spare the lube. There’s a lot. He’s soaking  wet, and every time Edward thrust in, there’s a distinct squench.</p><p>“A style that shows appreciation of older generations,” Edward adds. Kisses Sol’s cheek, like he needs to soften the blow of a cutting remark. He looks adorably smug when he pulls back.</p><p>“Bet you’re super into the Greeks,” Sol says, and rolls his hips to prove his point. God, this dildo is so good. Worth every pound for the pounding. Edward’s rhythm is slow and languid, but still intense, robbing Sol of breath at every thrust.</p><p>Still.</p><p>He’s no Holy Lieutenant Jopson. He doesn’t need to be fucked soft and have his hands held and cheeks kissed. Sol gives Edward a smile, who’s still thinking of a comeback, brows furrowed.</p><p>Sol rolls him over. Edward makes a <em>sound </em>when he lands on his back, low and dangerous. Sol climbs over him, and lowers himself down on the dildo. Now, this is fucking <em>it</em>. That burning pain. Feeling full to the bursting. Sol circles his hips, testing the pressure, while Edward looks at him, mouth open.</p><p>“What? You’ve never been ridden?”</p><p>Edward slowly shakes his head.</p><p>“Welcome to the future,” Sol says, and drops down on the dildo. They both cry out. Fuck, it’s a lot. The angle is—holy shit. Wow. Okay. Sol starts moving, back and forth, up and down, because he means business. Edward is still staring at him open-mouthed, which gives Sol an unobscured view of his teeth sticking out of his gums and palate. He reaches to hold Edward’s face, then thinks better of it, and grabs his tits instead. It’s better leverage, and Edward has a reaction to getting his nipples touched.</p><p>“You like that?” Sol asks. Flicks at them again. Edward bites his lip, the beautiful idiot. Licks at it after, lapping up the blood. It’s so fucking hot.</p><p>Sol puts on a show like a good cowboy. Makes sure to twist his hips just so, to moan and flex his arms, grope at Edward. Edward tears at the sheets. Will probably manage to rip them. Sol thinks about explaining the situation to John, should he return, then thinks about—John, right now, just coming through the bedroom door, coming home and finding Sol on the cock (dildo) of a bloody vampire, riding him into oblivion, bobbing up and down, his dick swaying obscenely until it’s too hard to move much, until it’s just pointing forward, then up. John was a good pal, he’d never leave Sol with blue balls—he’d climb up the bed and lend him a hand, wank his cock for him while Sol’s busy toying with Edward’s chest.</p><p>“Fucking hell,” Sol gasps. He reaches for his abandoned cock, but Edward beats him to it, grabs at it and <em>yanks</em>, and for a moment, Sol thinks he’s finished, but no—Edward pulls at him again, and again, pumping Sol’s dick while fucking his arse. He’s being serviced, and it’s some VIP shit, because the full intensity of Edward’s attention is on him, and he’s not even getting much out of it, is he? Sol’s already done his bit, gave Edward what he craved, this is just the afterplay, this is—a reward, exactly.</p><p>“Tell me your name,” Edward begs, eyes heavy-lidded.</p><p>“I haven’t…? Fuck, shit, sorry, Solomon, do not call me Solomon, it’s Sol—”</p><p>“Sol,” Edward says, soft. His <em>voice</em>. His fucking voice. It’s so reassuring, it’s a voice to make promises with, <em> I like you, Sol, I won’t ever leave</em>—</p><p>Sol kisses him, hot and dirty, fucking himself on the dildo, the fucking monster dildo Edward put on just for him, just because Sol asked, just to make him feel good, and he does, it’s fantastic, it’s—</p><p>“Sergeant Tozer,” he whispers against Edward’s lips. “If you prefer that.”</p><p>“Sergeant Tozer, then; that’s the proper address,” Edward says. He grabs Sol’s arse and guides him down the length of the dildo, yanks him up just to push him back down, and Sol’s starting to see stars again.</p><p>“What’s—what was your rank?”</p><p>“First Lieutenant.” Edward says, strangely melancholic for a guy who’s currently destroying arse. He slams in hard, making Sol’s eyes roll back in his head as he gasps. “Then I made Commander; even though I don’t think it was deserved; I certainly outrank you.”</p><p>“You’re no boss of me, Commander Little,” Sol grits. “Different divisions.”</p><p>Edward grips his arse hard enough to bruise. He sits up, so Sol’s in his line of sight, and can witness his sad smile closely. “I shall think,” Edward says softly, “that water triumphs over fire; the navy over firemen.”</p><p>“Bastard,” Sol says. “No, that’s not how it works, fuck off.”</p><p>Edward twists his head at an angle it should <em>absolutely </em>not bend. “The very elements dictate that you shall follow my orders.”</p><p>“If that’s what gets you off,” Sol says, because now all he can think of is <em>vampire </em>and <em>hot</em>. Edward leans to his ear. He’s cold, cold as death. Sol burns with life, burns with want.</p><p>“Give me your seed, Sergeant,” Edward orders.</p><p>Sol hates himself for it, but that does it. He’s spurting against Edward’s stomach, weaker than before, for sure, but still. He’s done exactly as he was told, like a good soldier boy, and Edward smiles, in that depressed way he has, like it’s a relief. </p><p>“Thank you kindly,” he says, polite as ever.</p><p>Sol groans and collapses against him. “You little shit,” he mutters. Hugs him. God. Edward was made to be hugged. Well. Made to murder. Both, perhaps. Like a bear.</p><p>He’s very cold and he smells of winter. The dildo is slipping out. But fuck, the hug is good. “You okay?” he asks Edward.</p><p>“I feel alive for the first time in a long while.”</p><p>“Glad to hear that.” Sol pats his shoulder. “Chuffed.”</p><p>“Would you still want me,” Edward asks shyly, “if I were alive?”</p><p>Sol sighs. Keeps him in his embrace while catching his breath. “You’d drive me nuts and I’d love you for it.” He wets his lips. “I was thinking…”</p><p>That’s when The Mountain Goats start blasting. Edward startles; before Sol can blink, he’s up the ceiling.</p><p>Literally up the fucking ceiling.</p><p>Holding himself there like Spiderman, except fully naked, with a dildo and a harness.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Sol says. “It’s just music, just music playing from my phone, my pocket device.”</p><p>“That’s not music,” Edward says darkly. Sol’s spent cock twitches, the little overachiever. Edward is very sexy perched like that. Sol could watch him all night, touching himself.</p><p>Sol tugs his discarded trousers closer by a leg. Edward is eyeing him suspiciously as he accepts the call and lifts the phone to his ear.</p><p>“Hey, Tommy,” Sol says. Edward flinches.</p><p>“Hey!” Tommy chirps. “How’s Edward?”</p><p>“Good,” Sol says, licking the taste of blood and spit from his lips while giving a grin to Edward. “Very good. Fine. He was, um. Making those stupid ghost hunting videos you like?”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Unattended candle plus curtain. Totally freaked out. He’s sorry he scratched you.”</p><p>Edward starts descending from the ceiling.</p><p>“Did he find anything?”</p><p>His arms and legs look twisted out of their joints. His head hangs. Fuck, if he bends like that—</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Was there spirit activity? I didn’t know Little House was haunted!”</p><p>“Oh, it’s haunted like shit. You wouldn’t believe it.”</p><p>“And he’s okay, then?”</p><p>“Yeah, just needed some...warming up. Stern talking to, too. Will drop him off at his boyfriend’s.” Edward makes a face at that. <em>Sorry</em>, Sol mouths, then turns back to the phone. “So it’s all settled. Thank you for your help.”</p><p>“Anything for you, haha. Tell him I said hi, I’m uh, looking forward to the video? Make sure to get his socials.” </p><p>“Yeah, sure. Bye-bye!”</p><p>“Good night!”</p><p>Edward crawls back into bed. “You shouldn’t lie to your friends,” he says.</p><p>“What was I to say?” Sol double-checks that he hung up, then falls back onto the bed, sweaty and naked and happy. A whole-ass vampire climbs atop him, staying on his hands and knees as he regards Sol.</p><p>“Where will you take me?”</p><p>“Where do you want to go?”</p><p>Edward is silent. Sol gets up to his elbows and starts undoing the harness for him. Edward lets him.</p><p>“You can totally stay the night, but y’know. Every catastrophe is a new start, huh? You could embrace the opportunity to reconnect with the Right Honourable Lieutenant Jopson.”</p><p>Edward mumbles something. Sol sets the harness aside, and kisses his chest.</p><p>“Sleep on it,” he says. “Housefires put things into perspective, I think. Things lost, things gained.”</p><p>“I never wanted to lose him,” Edward says softly.</p><p>“I feel you. Hey. It’s okay. Just figure out what you want. I could take you to his lair?”</p><p>Sol would like to think he’s doing a solid for another broken heart.</p><p>That it has nothing to do with his hopes for a vampire threesome.</p><p>Zero connection.</p><p>None.</p><p>Still.</p><p>Only thing better than fucking a vampire is fucking two vampires, or two vampires fucking. He has ambition now. Hopes. Dreams.</p><p>“He won’t be at his address, will he?” Edward mutters, and looks out of the window, holding onto Sol. Dawn is far away. “He’ll be hunting,” Edward says wistfully.</p><p>“We don’t have to go right now, I’m knackered anyway.”</p><p>“Or perhaps he’s still at his job,” Edward ponders, as if he didn’t hear him. “He works in IT.”</p><p>Sol blinks at him.</p><p>Opens his mouth to speak.</p><p>Closes it.</p><p>“It means Information Technology,” Edward says loftily.</p><p>“Your ex who made you a vampire in the 19th century when you left him to his fate works in IT?”</p><p>“That’s the information I managed to gather when I was last awoken,” Edward confirms. He climbs off Sol, but only to lie next to him. “I have his address, but my letters were returned undelivered, even though I have obtained stamps.”</p><p>“What’s the address?</p><p>Edward gets comfortable, throwing a leg over Sol’s. “Thomas dot Jopson scribble hotmail dot C-O-M.”</p><p>Sol closes his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he mumbles. Holds him closer. There’s a vampire roaming London, smiling, pale, in a sharp suit. Food for fucking thought, but now Sol’s dormant matchmaker is awakening besides base and selfish fantasies. “Listen, we’ll sort it out for you. Whatever makes you happy. But you should also know that I’m not throwing you out. There’s uh. There’s no window in the bathroom, you could sleep in the tub I suppose, it’s sorta like a coffin? I could keep you safe, I could—”</p><p>“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Edward says. He’s deceptively subdued. Looks like a guy who never sucked his blood. All soft lips and puppy eyes. Perhaps more blood could help him pass for human. Sol’s mind is running ahead a hundred miles.</p><p>“You wouldn’t be a burden to me, buddy,” Sol says. “I gotta ask John though. It’s still his home.”</p><p>“I shall await the news.”</p><p>“No, I can just send him a...telegram? No?” Sol reaches for his phone. Edward clings on. God, he’s fucking cold. The cuddliest bag of frozen peas on the market. Sol presses a quick kiss to the top of head. “Lemme figure it out,” he says.</p><p>Fuck, he missed this. Taking care of someone else. Fixing their problems.</p><p>He misses it still.</p><p>But Edward is not just filling a hole. Well. Except with a dildo. But it’s like. He’s a sexual revolution on two legs. He’s cute. He’s soft. Surprisingly soft. Fun to tease, fun to please. Sol wants to read him Charles Darwin and put on music and show him the moon landing and definitely explain postcolonialism. He wants to take him on late-night dates, walk by the Thames, point at the Gherkin and watch Edward shit himself with laughter or cry. Help him hunt squirrels at Regent’s or whatever. Oh, and boats! Edward must be interested in those—the canals and Camden, Edward wouldn’t look out of place at all with all the punks and goths, Sol could put him in a leather jacket and get them a boat. Take him home at the break of dawn. Close all the blinds and fuck him silly by candlelight. Figure out how to make him come. Feed him his blood.</p><p>He pulls up his messages while caressing Edward’s back, who looks like he’s about to doze off. Sol angles the screen so Edward can see it. He squints, so Sol puts the brightness way down, and begins to type with a thumb.</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: hey this is about the flat</p><p>The reply, for once, is instant.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: What about the flat, Solomon.</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer: </strong>jolly fuck he lives!!!</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>:  This better be about the flat, it’s very late and I have no time for silly business. I would like us to stay friends, so please do be serious. I’m on a spiritual journey to find myself and I wish you respected that.</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: I met somebody</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: Good for you.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: Congratulations.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: Don’t see how it’s any of my business, but I’m happy for you.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: And I sincerely hope he’ll make you happy.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: I assume it’s a man, but you do you and I do me.</p><p>Sol bites his tongue and resists the pun about doing John.</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: was thinking about moving him in</p><p>Edward makes a small sound of approval.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: That's perfectly fine as long as it’s your room. I don’t think I’ll be back in London for a while. I'm out of the lifestyle forever.</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: lol</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: sorry</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: even on special occasions?</p><p><strong>John Irving:</strong> Yes.</p><p><strong>John Irving</strong>: I will admit I enjoyed myself while it lasted, and I’ll always cherish the memories, but I’m not like that and it’s over. We’re to be friends, no benefits whatsoever.</p><p>Sol rolls his eyes. Pulls up the camera app.</p><p>“Can we send him a portrait?”</p><p>“Unless you are to reveal hidden talents, I do believe you mean a daguerreotype,” Edward mumbles. He shows up on the screen. Probably because there’s no silver involved in the process. God, he looks amazing in the low lights. He also looks very sleepy. Sol will have a quick shower then put him to rest. He searches for his lips, and Edward returns the kiss eagerly. Sol snaps a picture, shows it to him. Edward grunts his approval, and licks at his chin lazily. Sol takes a photo of that too. Send both to John.</p><p><strong>Solomon Tozer</strong>: two boyfriends for the price of one. possibly three. that’ll help you figure out your sexuality better than moping in scotland. get your ass home already and we’ll help. cheers</p><p>Sol turns to kiss Edward again, and counts down the seconds until the phone starts ringing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warnings: mild body horror: Edward has way too many teeth / copious description of blood, erotic biting / eroticisation of cannibalism</p><p>Many thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula">ktula</a> for betaing!</p><p>Dear fosfomifira, I sneaked in some Solving for you because we love a lieutenant polycule 🥰</p><p>Title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z72_Sjy2SnQ"><i>The Queen of the Dead</i> OST</a>, which is apparently a forbidden song since it's not on Spotify</p></blockquote></div></div>
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